ny copper wires pulse through vinyl skin. do they taste like blood or does the blood taste like them? I've lost track. we're all machines anyway, iron and electronic pulses in the wires, looking for someone to write the code.
in any programming class the teacher will tell you that the computer has no heart, no response, no ill will. if it gives you garbage, you put your crumpled receipts and taco wrappers in there. it can do only what you've programmed and no more.
on the train home I'm bent over my laptop, cursing the compiler and my own weaknesses. someone's asking for change and I hand him a dollar. the next guy complains about him, about the poor, about society and why doesn't he just get a job anyway. I hesitate and turn up my headphones.
when the program finally runs I laugh under my breath, then look down, avoiding the eyes of my fellow commuters. at least my creation does what I tell it and the bitter taste in my mouth is probably blood and not copper at all.
for Sophie